


Water-Mint

by Pippins_Mushr00ms



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Drabble, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, look it stayed under 1000 words!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:48:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21613294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pippins_Mushr00ms/pseuds/Pippins_Mushr00ms
Summary: Just a little drabble about water-mint and sour stomachs. They all knew what was up with that creek water.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	Water-Mint

It started with a mild pang in his midsection.

Damn that Cistercian.

Brother Geraldus was full of horse manure and the Mute knew it.

All the same, Diarmuid would _not_ be a pawn in Geraldus's little power play.

The Mute had smelled the peaty, waterlogged stench of rotted flesh somewhere nearby. He'd seen the same flicker of recognition across Brother Ciaran's face up the caravan. _That_ was a man with his head on his shoulders.

Something was dead and it was probably somewhere in that damn creek. And since the Mute's sharp eyes hadn't seen anything in the clear water as they'd moved on, he could only assume the bloated carcass was somewhere behind them.

Judging by the pain in his stomach, he'd apparently assumed correct. He scowled.

He shifted the yoke on his shoulders again to free one hand up. With it, he pressed a fist to his diaphragm and tried to keep his face impassive. He was thankful they were stopping for the midday meal soon. The caravan was already slowing down.

 _"Hey, are you all right?"_ came a soft voice in Gaelic to his left.

The Mute looked down to see Diarmuid staring up at him, concerned. Damn the boy too. He was too perceptive and if he didn't learn to--

He cut off the thought, (knowing he was just being irritable) but his face had fallen into a deep frown without his noticing until the boy began to look uncomfortable.

_"S-sorry, I thought--"_

The Mute waved off Diarmuid's apologies, much to the boy's relief. The huge man just patted his stomach and grimaced. He was about to mime drinking, but stopped when he realized the Novice understood.

Diarmuid nodded, his dark curls bobbing in the sun.

 _"I thought I smelled something dead near the creek,"_ he admitted, looking down. He kept his voice low enough to keep the others from overhearing. _"Thank you, you know, for stepping in."_

The Mute winced when another pang lanced through him. He let out a breath when it passed and shook his head.

The hoofbeats had stopped now, and everyone was unloading bits of supplies. There was no need for a fire as this would probably be a quick meal of dried, salted meats, some fresh vegetables and traveler's bread.

Diarmuid was still watching him as the Mute covered the distance to the wagon and and knelt to set his yoke on the ground. A particularly nasty stomach cramp had him sitting down heavily next to it. He schooled his face into a blank slate.

That, of course, did not fool the boy. The Mute shook his head, looking at the ground between his knees. He already knew the wheels in the kid's head were turning.

The little monk walked to the front of the wagon and spoke to Brother Ciaran in hushed tones. The older man responded just as quietly before handing Diarmuid a small white packet. The boy nodded and made his way to the back of the cart, eyes flicking up to the Brother dressed in white.

"Here," Diarmuid mumbled, opening the packet, looking down again.

With deft fingers, the novice quickly pressed five of the small dried leaves into the Mute's hand.

"What is that, boy?"

Diarmuid twitched slightly and straightened to look at Geraldus, startled at being addressed.

 _"It's water-mint. It wards off-"_ he started to explain but was cut off.

"It soothes an aching stomach, Brother," came Cirian's voice behind him. "Will you try some?"

The boy's mouth snapped shut, relieved to have the Cistercian's attention off him. He turned his own attention back to the Mute, who was chewing his leaves. His intense eyes flit back and forth between the large cloud of smoke in the distance and their guides. Diarmuid followed suite curiously.

"I have no stomachache, herbalist," he replied, in what he thought was a serene tone. (It made Diarmuid's skin crawl.)

It was then that said guides declared they would go no further, due to wat in their homeland. They pointed to the rising grey plume they'd notice shortly before and after a bit of arguing, began to ride toward it. 

With faith, the band of Brothers began to tread on their way, alone. 

* * *

Note: eh, just for funsies, hence the cheap ending. I like a lil bit of Mute whump. I'm still trudging away on Souls Intertwined. 


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